


Pencil lines and comet tails

by narada-talis (sarensen)



Series: Pencil lines [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, First Kiss, Hospitals, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Shiro's prosthetic, but not by choice, keith is basically a criminal, they are both so very awkward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:26:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21775600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarensen/pseuds/narada-talis
Summary: Shiro is a young war vet who takes up part time work at a coffee shop to cover his medical bills after losing his arm in battle. Keith is a first offender working off his community service doing deliveries. When they meet, it’s love at first sight. Shiro gives Keith the second chance he never thought he’d deserve, and Keith gives Shiro the sense of purpose he thought he’d lost forever.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: Pencil lines [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137905
Comments: 11
Kudos: 158





	Pencil lines and comet tails

The sound of shattering porcelain makes everything stop. For a moment, people pause in their conversations to look over. The clink of cutlery goes quiet. The soft background music seems to skip a beat. Even the tiny dustmotes floating peacefully in the beams of soft sunlight coming through the window seem to freeze.

Shiro curses mentally, bending down to hastily sweep up what remains of the coffee mug. It's completely shattered, pieces of porcelain rising from a spreading pool of black coffee like mountains out of the sea. His prosthetic arm makes for a good enough broom, if nothing else.

As he sweeps the shards back onto his tray, his eyes dare to flicker up. Of course the crash also drew _his_ attention. Shiro looks down hastily, clicking his tongue, because now _he's_ on his way over, impossibly long legs crossing the floor in record time.

He crouches down in front of Shiro, tight jeans stretching over his knees. "Let me help," he says, already starting to pick larger pieces of porcelain out of the pile to deposit them in Shiro's tray. His voice is deeper than Shiro had imagined, and rough, almost like he's been yelling.

Around them, the coffee shop goes back to its usual bustle. But for Shiro, it's as if the rest of the world has faded into the background. Up close, the man's eyes aren't blue, like he'd originally thought. They're a striking shade of violet Shiro's never seen before. He briefly wonders if he's wearing contacts, then gets distracted by the long fingers sweeping black hair out of the man's face. With his fingerless gloves and black leather jacket he looks like something straight out of a magazine.

"You doin' okay?" the man asks, and now Shiro realizes he's been staring. Not only has he been staring, but he never replied.

Cheeks flaming, he looks away, clearing his throat. "Sorry. I'm okay. Thanks for helping, but I got this."

"It's no problem. Many hands make light..." he trails off, eyes flickering to Shiro's prosthetic. He swallows visibly, and Shiro's stomach sinks. He's gotten used to this kind of reaction over the past few months. He can practically recite the conversation that's about to happen already. No one ever knows quite how to react to someone missing an arm. They'll say something unthinkingly, stutter to a pause, then try and scramble to awkwardly apologize or change the topic.

The only thing that could possibly be worse than stumbling over a chair leg because he'd been staring at a hot guy would be making the aforementioned hot guy feel embarrassed because of his prosthetic.

So he puts on his best smile, and says, "Yeah, many hands make light work. Totally true. Thanks for the help. Appreciate it."

The stranger inclines his head, but Shiro doesn't miss the glimmer of relief on his face.

They pile the last pieces of the ex-mug onto the tray, and straighten together. The man's scent envelopes Shiro briefly, and he tries to hide his deep inhale as they step apart.

"You good?" the man asks, eyeing the way Shiro is balancing the tray on his good hand.

"I'm good." Shiro smiles. "Thanks again."

Shiro gets a mock salute in answer, and before he has a chance to say anything else, the man turns and disappears out the coffee shop's back door. Shiro stares after him, trying to place what he'd smelled of. It had been a warm scent, kind of heavy, and strangely familiar.

By the time a motorbike roars to life outside, Shiro realizes he's still standing in the middle of the room, holding a tray with a broken mug and staring at the door. Someone's hand lands lightly on his shoulder, shaking him out of his reverie.

"Shiro. Is everything alright?"

Allura manages the shop for her adoptive father, Coran, the owner. Coran had been a field medic for the military before he retired, and had been friends with Shiro's father. He'd been a constant presence and support all through Shiro's life, and when Shiro lost his arm, it had been Coran and Allura who flew out to come get him, who brought him back home, and stayed with him while he was in the hospital.

And once he'd recovered enough to leave, they offered him this position to help him settle his medical bills. He owes them more than he could ever repay.

Allura has a concerned expression on her face, watching Shiro with her head tilted slightly to the side as she wipes her hands on a cloth.

"Who was that?" is what Shiro says, even though he'd been meaning to reply that he was fine.

"Hmm?" She follows Shiro's gaze to the back door. "Oh, that's Keith. He's going to be doing a few deliveries for us." She looks around, then leans over to Shiro conspiratorially. In a stage whisper, she adds, "He's part of Coran's outreach program to employ convicted felons as part of their community service."

And of course that's something Coran would do. He's always trying to help people.

Shiro's eyebrows climb. "What did he do?"

Allura shrugs. "I'm really not sure. It can't have been too bad, though, if he hasn't been locked away."

Shiro stares at the door through which Keith left as if he could still see him. Allura follows his line of sight again, looking between Shiro and the door, then smiles a little secretive smile and makes her way back to the counter, leaving Shiro alone with his thoughts.

The rest of his shift passes in a daze. He deposits the broken mug in the trash and makes a new cup of coffee mechanically, staring off into space while he waits for the filter. The usual afternoon rush seems to pass by quicker than usual, customers fading in and out of Shiro's notice as his thoughts return every now and then to the purple-blue of Keith's eyes, the curve of his thighs under those tightly-stretched jeans, and the tendrils of unruly black hair obscuring his eyes.

Adam fetches him at the usual time after his shift.

Shiro hasn't been able to drive yet, with his prosthetic, and maybe never will again. His physiotherapist said there are some people who gain enough command over the mechanics of their prosthetic arms to manage the micro-muscular control needed to steer a car. Adam, the eternal realist, says it's better not to get his hopes up. That he should prepare for the worst and learn to cope with what he has.

He'd broken up with Shiro just before Shiro got deployed. It had been good while it lasted, but in the end, the strain of the distance that would separate them, and the constant worry about whether he would be safe or not had been too much for Adam. Shiro doesn't hold it against him. How could he, when Adam has been trying so hard to make it up to him?

He's been driving him to work, to the grocer, to the hospital for his physio appointments. He checks on him every morning and night. Every Sunday, he cooks and delivers enough meals to last Shiro the whole following week. If he's around, he'll insist on helping Shiro dress or undress.

And Shiro's grateful, he really is. Even though it can be stifling sometimes.

Both of them have been quiet on the drive home, Shiro leaning against the window to stare at the passing scenery.

He sees Adam's head turn slightly in his direction, and there's something about his posture - about the way he shifts his hand on the steering wheel, straightening his back slightly - that makes Shiro sigh internally. He's gone into Mom Mode.

Sure enough, Adam says, "Takashi. You look tired."

"I'm fine," Shiro answers mechanically. He can almost quote Adam's next words before they leave his mouth.

"You've been pushing too hard. You can't be as physical as you used to be."

He's had this conversation with Adam more times than he'd like to count.

"Your arm isn't ready yet. Your mind's not ready yet. You need to take it easy at work."

Shiro tries to remind himself that Adam is only trying to help, that it's because he's worried for him. But he isn't in the mood for another lecture, not after the way his heart had been fluttering just a few minutes before.

"I'm fine," he repeats, maybe a bit more harshly than he meant. He sees Adam look at him from the corner of his eye, but he thankfully doesn't reply.

Shiro goes back to staring out the window, allowing his mind to wander back to his meeting with Keith earlier.

When Allura's words finally catch up to the rest of his mind, he sits bolt upright, slapping his good hand on the dashboard.

_"He's going to be doing a few deliveries for us."_

That means he'll see Keith again. And soon.

***

 _Soon_ turns out to be a week later. Between Shiro's odd shifts and the small number of deliveries their family-owned coffee shop gets asked for, seeing Keith again turns out to be more of a challenge than anticipated.

When Shiro finally hears the roar of the bike out back close to the end of his shift the next Wednesday, he rips off his apron and hurries to the back door. "I'll get it!"

He ignores Allura's knowing smile, rushing past the counter, and imagines seeing her shake her head a little at him.

He opens the door just before Keith has the chance to press the buzzer.

Keith's hand hovers awkwardly over the button for a moment before he drops it, smiling at Shiro with one corner of his mouth. "Hey."

"Uh, hey," Shiro replies, trying to keep his voice level.

"Haven't seen you in a while." Keith continues. He has a worn baseball cap with a faded racing logo smooshed over his hair today, the sleeves of his leather jacket pushed up to his elbows. The fingerless gloves reveal just the top of his sloping, pale wrists. The same torn jeans from before are--

Shiro blinks. Wait. "You were looking for me?"

He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth.

Keith stares at him. "Uh. No. I just mean I, you know. Uh... Maybe you weren't on shift when I came by last time, or..."

"Why don't you come inside?" Shiro says a little more loudly than he means to, hoping his smile doesn't look as forced as it feels. He steps aside so Keith can enter.

As soon as Keith has passed him, Shiro presses his forehead into his hand, mouthing a curse at himself.

Allura commands Keith's attention the moment he enters her sight, and Shiro has no choice but to go back to work, watching covertly between customers as Allura stacks boxes filled with cakes and confectioneries from their bakery in Keith's one arm, before balancing a mobile coffee tray loaded with paper cups in his other. Shiro quickly turns off the steamer and hurries over to them.

"Let me help." He takes some of the cake boxes from Keith in his left hand, balancing them precariously on his bent prosthetic.

Keith has this look like he doubts Shiro will be able to carry the boxes with his arm. Most people do. But to Shiro's surprise, he just inclines his head and says in that gravelly voice of his, "Okay."

They make their way outside to where Keith's bike is parked in the back alley. It's a sleek, black number with matte inlays. It looks out of place in the littered and run-down little street, as expensive as its brand name suggests. The image is ruined a little by the bulky cargo box lashed to the rack behind the seat, in which Keith packs the boxes. Shiro hands him the ones from his arm wordlessly, watching him wedge the coffee tray expertly on one side to prevent it from spilling. He shuts the box with a click, turning to Shiro. "Thanks."

Shiro swallows, unprepared for how the smile would change Keith's face. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his expression turning unexpectedly sweet.

"Sure," he says, a bit breathlessly. "By the way, I'm Takashi. My friends call me Shiro."

"Keith." Keith replies. "I'm sorta the new delivery guy, I guess."

"I know." Shiro says, then quickly adds, "Allura told me."

"Oh, right. Here," Keith says. He digs in his jeans pocket and holds a small piece of paper out to Shiro.

Shiro takes it with a questioning look.

"My number." Keith says.

Shiro blinks furiously, looking down at the messily-scrawled numbers. His heart does that thing where it sort of jumps, and for a moment it feels like his stomach flips upside down. His eyes whip up to Keith, and he has to say something now because Keith is looking at him expectantly, like he's been quiet for too long. He opens his mouth, but--

"... For Allura?" Keith beats him to the punch. "My old phone died last week? And she wanted my new number?"

"Oh. Of course. Yeah. I'll uh... I'll make sure to give it to her."

"Cool. So then... I guess I'll see ya." He half waves one hand at Shiro, slinging one leg over the seat of his bike. As the growl of the engine vibrates through Shiro's body, it occurs to him to ask where Keith's helmet is. The baseball cap won't do much to keep him safe in an accident. He half lifts one hand to call out to Keith, but it's already too late. The bike roars, and Keith is gone.

Shiro watches him until he disappears around the corner, the tiny paper clenched tightly in his fist.

***

The next morning, Shiro is working behind the counter when the bell above the door rings. Without looking up, he starts with the standard greeting: "Hi, and welcome to Altea Coffee. What can I get--"

He pauses when he looks up. Keith is standing in front of the counter, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

"Oh," Shiro says eloquently, "It's you."

Keith smiles that lopsided smile of his. "Hello to you, too."

Shiro shakes his head quickly, pushing down the warm flutter in his chest. "Sorry. Sorry. It's just weird to see you on this side of the shop."

Keith shrugs. "Thought I'd come and see what the coffee I'm delivering actually tastes like for a change."

Shiro smiles slightly. "Okay then. So what can I get you?"

Keith goes back to studying the menu, lips pursed. Unconsciously, he bops his head slightly to the rhythm of the song playing on the radio. Locks of black hair curl into his face, framing high cheekbones. Shiro watches him secretly from the corner of his eye, pretending to wipe a mug.

It takes a few minutes, and Shiro's pretty sure this mug has never been drier in its life by the time Keith finally asks, "... What do you recommend?" His frown looks adorably unsure as he adds, "This stuff is way fancier than I'm used to."

Shiro considers, tilting his head to the side as he studies Keith. "I would say... you probably like your coffee very strong and very sweet. You usually take it without cream. And I'm guessing you prefer simple, straightforward blends to the more complicated ones available these days."

Keith's eyes widen slightly. "How did you know that?"

Shiro shrugs, fighting the urge to smile. "Just a lucky guess. Try the Vietnamese coffee. I think you'll like it."

Keith nods, then leans his elbows on the counter as he watches Shiro work. It takes him a bit of time, with the prosthetic being practically useless for this part of his job, but eventually he puts a glass cup with perfect levels of sweetened milk and espresso in front of Keith.

When Keith reaches for his wallet, Shiro stops him. "On the house. Employee benefit."

"I'm hardly an employee," Keith says, sounding unsure. "And I don't think I qualify for any benefits..."

"On me, then," Shiro amends, then winks at Keith, "and it'll be our secret."

Keith pauses with his hand on the ear of the cup, eyes not meeting Shiro's as he says, softly, "Thanks."

Shiro watches closely, heart racing, as he stirs the coffee, then lifts it to his full lips to take a sip. He closes his eyes, swallowing slowly. Then he smiles at Shiro, and not the half-smile he's gotten used to where just the corner of his lips lifts a little - but a full-blown smile, flashing a set of perfect white teeth.

"I like it," he says.

Shiro can't help but return the smile. "Thought you would."

Keith wraps his hands around the mug, studying Shiro with a ghost of the smile remaining on his face. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

Shiro fumbles the new cup he's busy drying, nearly dropping it. "I? I'm not. I mean, it's just a coffee. No big deal."

"It is to me." Keith says softly. "No one's ever bought me a coffee before."

Shiro blinks at him, speechless. No one? Surely that can't be true.

Eventually, he replies, "Well... Come by again when you have time. There's other kinds of coffees I think you'll like."

Keith looks down, but Shiro doesn't miss the pleased smile that crosses his face.

He sits at the counter while Shiro continues his shift, and they hardly say a word to each other, but once or twice when Shiro sneaks a glance at him, he finds Keith already looking at him, and has to fight the urge to smile, his heart feeling light in his chest.

***

On the drive home that night, it isn't until Adam asks him about the reason for his happy mood that Shiro realizes he hasn't stopped smiling.

"Oh," he deflects, "nothing. I was just thinking about someone-- something."

Adam glances at him, then back to the road.

"Keith," Shiro feels compelled to explain. "He's helping out at the shop with some deliveries. He came in for a coffee earlier."

Adam is quiet for so long, Shiro thinks he's going to drop it. But then he says, "I'm happy for you."

And because he wouldn't be Adam if he didn't, he adds, "Don't screw it up."

***

It's uncommonly empty in the coffee shop, a rare moment to breathe between the bustle of the morning rush hour and the press of lunchtime meetings.

Shiro has cleaned up the last of the mugs from this morning, wiped the counters, and without anything further to do, started polishing the coffee machines. The soft music from the radio lulls him into a kind of trance, his hand moving abstractedly over the silver bulb of the machine. Outside, the sun beats down on the road from a blue, cloudless sky. Little pedestrian traffic passes by the shop this time of day, most people stuck in the office. It offers an unobstructed view of the beautiful park across the road.

It's a welcome distraction when Shiro's phone vibrates in his pocket.

The text is from an unknown number.

_Hey. Can u pls resend me the address of Mr Sendak's company. I have their donuts but lost the directions allura gave me_

Shiro blinks at the message, then slowly types out:

 _Keith_?

He's still unused to typing with only his left hand, and it's slow going. Before he's able to press send, the phone vibrates in his hand with another message alert.

_Oh this is keith btw_

Shiro smiles and scrolls through his contacts, sending him Sendak's card. As an afterthought, he adds,

_Busy day?_

The reply is almost instantaneous.

_Yeah -_- Dreaming abt that vietnamese coffee_

_You'll just have to come round for another one some time then_ , Shiro sends back.

 _Only if u make it for me_ , comes the reply.

Shiro's heart is beating so fast that he struggles to type out an answer, and then the bell rings and customers start coming in again and he has to give up.

But for the rest of the day, he finds his thoughts returning to the text conversation again and again.

When he gets home that night, he saves Keith's number in his phone.

***

In the months since Shiro had his prosthetic fitted, it's gradually gone from being a stiff, heavy and useless dead weight to something moderately resembling a functional limb. The movement of his fingers is still stiff, and they can never quite bend the way he needs them to. The pain where the metal implant digs into his shoulder is constant and, he's told, will never really go away. But he still remembers the first time he was able to wrap the silver fingers around a spoon, the elation, the pure euphoria of being able to lift it to his mouth and sip the soup out of it. It's a limited freedom, but one he's immensely grateful for.

This is largely due to the efforts of his physiotherapist. Slav's methods are unorthodox - Shiro's pretty sure some of the things he's made him do aren't written in any medical text - and often painful. His personality grates on Shiro, too. Shiro isn't easy to anger, but Slav apparently knows just which buttons to press, and more often than not Shiro finds himself having to reign in his anger or risk snapping at him.

There's no doubt his techniques are effective, however painful. But the sessions do take their toll on Shiro, both mentally and physically. He's often incapacitated for hours afterward, too exhausted and tender to move. As it turns out, actually losing the arm wouldn't be nearly as painful as the recovery.

So he's grateful to Adam for taking him, for sitting with him through the session, and for being there for him afterwards. He starts mentally preparing himself for his appointment on Saturday the previous night, steeling himself against the instinctual urge to skip the session and avoid the resulting pain.

Adam texts him after midnight, saying he won't be able to take him to his appointment. His father was in an accident; they're not sure if he'll pull through. Shiro stares at the phone in dismay, but texts him back not to worry, and that he's sorry about his dad, and that he's here if Adam needs anything.

Allura and Coran won't be able to leave the shop tomorrow - Saturdays are their busy days and they have to bring in an extra waiter just to cover for Shiro when he has his sessions.

He sighs, rubbing his palm over his chin. He can't really afford a cab. And if he's being honest, he isn't sure he'll have the courage to go through with the appointment without Adam being there. Maybe he should just cancel it altogether.

He's just getting ready for bed when his phone vibrates on the nightstand. It's a text from Keith.

_U asleep?_

He can't help but smile, sitting down on the bed to reply, his apprehension over his appointment momentarily pushed aside.

_Not yet._

_Wyd_? comes the reply, with Keith's usual speed. Shiro pictures him lying in his bed, his hair fanned out on the pillow behind him, face illuminated by the blue glow of the phone.

 _Getting ready for bed._ Shiro types out. _Worrying about tomorrow._

_What's tomorrow?_

_Got physio. My ride cancelled :(_

_I'll take u._ The reply is instant, as though Keith hadn't thought about it at all.

The phone vibrates again in Shiro's hand:

_Ur ok going on my bike?_

Shiro stares at the phone, then taps a reply, frustrated at how long it takes him with only his left hand.

_You really don't have to. It's out of your way_

_I don't mind. What time do I pick u up_

Shiro smiles, trying to ignore the light feeling in his stomach, the way his heart flutters.

_Appointment is at 10 at the hospital_

Keith sends him the thumbs-up emoji, and

_C u @ 9:30_

_Thanks. I owe you free coffee for a week :)_

Shiro puts the phone down, feeling warm all over. It's only a few minutes later, when it vibrates again, that he realizes he hasn't moved, and has been staring into the distance with a smile on his face.

He picks up the phone to read, __

_Shit wait what's ur address_

He chuckles and sends it to Keith.

That night, he has trouble sleeping, and it isn't because he's anxious about tomorrow.

***

Keith knocks on his door at exactly 9:30AM. He's wearing torn jeans, sneakers, and a tank under his leather jacket. Hands covered by the familiar fingerless gloves are shoved into his pockets. He says, "Hey. You ready?"

Shiro locks the door behind him, stuffing the keys into his back pocket with his phone. "Ready as I'll ever be. Thanks again for doing this."

"It's no problem. Really. One of my moms spent a lotta time in the hospital. I used to take her all the time for her treatments."

"Moms?" Shiro can't help but ask, one eyebrow raised as they walk down the corridor. They pause in front of the elevator.

"I grew up in the system," Keith says, watching the display dial up the floor numbers as the elevator starts to rise. "Moved around a few foster homes."

"Oh. I see."

An awkward silence follows between them. Shiro absently toys with one of the leaves of the potted fern next to the elevator until the lift announces its arrival with a soft _ding_ , and they step inside.

Then Keith says, "It's much better on my own, now. Don't have to worry about what anyone thinks about me. Free to do what I want."

Shiro nods thoughtfully. "I remember feeling like that when I moved to the States from Japan. My folks lived on the military base where my dad worked, and I went to a boarding school. Coming from a Japanese household and suddenly having all this freedom... it was exhilarating."

Keith remains quiet, but it's an inviting silence, one his inquisitive stare encourages Shiro to fill.

"I ended up going back to the base when my dad retired. Got deployed in my first year. I was a fighter pilot for three years until..." he trails off.

"Do you miss it?" Keith asks.

"The war? No." Shiro says decisively, shaking his head. "But I do miss flying. I guess I can never do that again." He looks down at his prosthetic hand, curling his fingers in and out.

"Sure you can," Keith shrugs. "Why not? There's crop dusters and things. Simple things, just to get in the sky again. Doesn't have to be a jet or anything like that. The guy who flew the plane in my Pa's unit had an artificial leg. Flew it just fine."

The way he says it is so simple, as if it's just that easy. As if he doesn't even doubt Shiro could do it.

Shiro stares at him, speechless.

In the months since he lost his arm, he's been told how his life would change. He's been told all the things he'd never be able to do again. Told to adapt. To change his dreams for the future, to change his plans, his whole life. Over and over he's been told nothing would ever be the same again. Worst of all, he's started to believe it. Started to fall into that dark hole where everything he ever wanted could never exist.

And with three simple words, it's as if Keith makes the sun come out from behind the clouds.

_Sure you can._

Shiro bites his lip against the ache in his throat and the prickle in his eyes, tearing his gaze away from Keith and focusing on the changing numbers displayed over the door instead. His heart beats so loudly in his chest it feels like it might crack his ribs.

"Have you ridden a bike before?" Keith asks as they step out when the doors open. "It's pretty easy. You don't have to do anything except hold on."

"I think I'll be okay." Shiro replies. It can't be more difficult than piloting a MiG. Besides, right now, he feels like he could do anything.

Keith picks up a spare helmet from the rack fixed to the back of the bike. The delivery box is absent today, and without it, the bike looks sleeker, meaner, like it could actually reach the speeds its brand name suggests it could. Shiro pushes the helmet down over his hair, and Keith helps him fasten the strap around his chin before donning his own. Then he slips onto the seat, turning to look at Shiro.

Shiro lifts his leg over, sliding onto the saddle behind Keith. He hesitates, then wedges his prosthetic between their bodies, slipping his good arm around Keith's waist. His stomach is defined, hard muscle meeting the flesh of Shiro's forearm. His back is warm even through the layers of their clothing. Shiro takes a deep breath, trying to control the way his heart is racing.

"Is this okay?" he asks Keith when his arm settles around him.

Keith's helmet tilts in a nod, but he doesn't reply, kicking up the bike's stand and starting it up.

The ride to the hospital passes in a daze. Trees blur into lamp posts and signposts into traffic lights, the blue sky high above them streaking with white clouds. The only constant is the reassuring weight of Keith's back pressed against him, the confident way he tilts his balance to turn corners, the minute movements of his body against Shiro's when he steps down to change gears.

It's over too quickly, and Shiro definitely isn't ready to get off the bike when they pull up outside the ward. Keith takes his helmet off, shaking his hair out. It flares and settles around his shoulders. He pulls his fingers through it to straighten it a bit. Shiro hurriedly looks away when he glances up at him.

Thankfully, Keith either didn't notice him staring, or chooses to ignore it. "Do you want me to come in with you?"

"Oh. You don't have to stay," Shiro says, placing his own helmet carefully on the rack. "I can get an Uber back."

"I don't have anywhere else to be." Keith shrugs. "Mind if I keep you company?"

Shiro's stomach does that thing again where it feels like it's trying to flip around. "Sure. I'd like that."

Together, they head into the hospital, making their way to the ward Slav works out of.

Whenever Adam accompanied him to the hospital, Shiro used to spend the long wait before his appointment in silence, messing around on his phone or watching muted Discovery Channel documentaries on the TV mounted on the wall.

With Keith, conversation comes easily, though he doesn't strike Shiro as someone with whom this is always the case. They talk about anything and everything, discovering a mutual love of the stars and anything to do with space, and a shared sense of adventure and adrenaline-seeking. Keith loves dogs and owns a real katana, which he keeps in his apartment next to his bed, for reasons he dodges around when Shiro asks. His dad was a fireman, and his mom worked for the CIA. They both passed away when he was a kid.

Shiro finds himself staring at the shape of Keith's lips while he talks, at the easy way he leans back into the uncomfortable hospital-waiting-room-chair with his arms draped over the back and his ankle resting on his knee. Thick, dark lashes brush the tops of his cheekbones when he looks down, recalling something from his past. And his voice is just as deep and rough as the day they first met, and just as captivating.

Shiro doesn't hear the nurse calling his name until her third try, by which time she sounds a little irate. Chagrined, he excuses himself from the conversation, trying to swallow down the butterflies brought on by Keith's easy smile.

The session turns out to be harder than expected. He gets in an argument with Slav almost the moment he steps through the door. It makes them both testy, and while Slav would never deliberately hurt Shiro, maybe he is a little rougher with him than usual. He adjusts the myoelectric nodes implanted in Shiro's shoulder, then tightens the fitting with a small screwdriver. It bites into Shiro's flesh with a pain only exacerbated by the exercises and stretches they do afterward. Physiotherapy has never been a comfortable experience for Shiro, but it's also never quite been this bad.

By the end of the session, he's in so much pain he can hardly hold back his tears. Even the lightest brush of clothing against the prosthetic sends ripples of agony searing through his body. His left hand shakes so badly he can hardly lift the glass of water Slav offers him to take a drink.

When Slav suggests taking some morphine for the pain, Shiro quickly and gladly agrees. A brief prick of the needle is all it takes for a cloud of relief to roll over him, almost immediately. He sighs, letting his head tilt back and just focusing on his breathing as his mind goes blank, a quiet blanket of fog settling over his thoughts.

In the daze brought on by the morphine, he's only vaguely aware of the events that follow. He registers dim annoyance at Slav's voice, but the words wash over him like water. This is followed by a kind of happy bliss at hearing Keith's voice in reply. Shiro's vision is slightly blurred, the world spinning merrily when he moves. Best of all is that the pain in his arm has gone completely numb. It's bliss.

He feels someone pulling at him and follows automatically, his whole body feeling heavy. The world fades in and out of existence, a stop-motion movie featuring still-frames of Keith's face, the hospital lobby, a nurse he doesn't recognise, glaring light as they pass through the doors, sitting on a cold surface and then a warm one, and finally, blessed silence as a door slams next to him, shutting out the world.

Information drips its way into his head like coffee through the filter at work. They're in a car. He's resting against someone. It's comfortable. The smell is familiar, and the memory of Keith taking him to the hospital announces itself like an echo from within a deep cave. He allows his head to loll onto Keith's shoulder, all thought absent except that it's warm and comfortable and that he would very much like to stay here forever, if possible.

Dimly, he registers the tickle of hair on his forehead as Keith's cheek presses against the top of his head. He thinks the weight on his shoulder might belong to Keith's arm. The heady smell of worn leather seems to belong to Keith, too, and Shiro recognizes it now - his dad's old bomber jacket had smelled like that, like _comfort_ and _home_. The backs of the soft fingers gently stroking his neck definitely belong to Keith. The motion is repetitive, soothing. It lulls him into a kind of trance. Eventually, his eyes start feeling heavy. He decides to close them, just for a moment...

***

He wakes up in his bed. Sunlight streams through the open drapes, casting a perfect square of yellow on the wall. Through the open window come the familiar sounds of traffic and birdsong, mixed with tendrils of conversation from the street far below when the wind shifts.

He pushes himself upright on his good arm, before rubbing his eyes. His mind is filled with cotton wool, the previous day nothing more than a blur in his memories. He wonders what time it is. He isn't even really sure what day it is.

Urged on by his sandy mouth, he gets up, relieving himself in the bathroom before pulling a T-shirt over his sweatpants and heading through to the kitchen.

He stops in the living room.

Keith is sprawled on his couch, fully dressed. One leg is awkwardly slung over the back of the couch, the other trailing on the ground. He has one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting on the strip of skin on his stomach where his shirt has ridden up.

The memory of the previous day slams into Shiro like a truck. "Keith!" he exclaims, louder than he meant to.

Keith jerks upright, blinking at him owlishly. A tuft of hair sticks up on the side of his head, and that is definitely a thin trail of dried drool on his chin. "Wha?"

"I'm so sorry," Shiro holds both hands out to him, walking over slowly. "I didn't mean to wake you. I was just... surprised to see you."

Keith scratches his head absently, squinting at the window. "'s fine. What time's it?"

Shiro glances at the wall clock. "Just past seven."

Keith grumbles something unintelligible through a yawn, but it's lost on Shiro as yet another realization hits him. His eyes fly down to his T-shirt and sweatpants, mind whirring into overdrive. This isn't what he'd been wearing yesterday.

He wants to ask Keith, _"What are you doing here?"_  
He wants to ask him, _"How did we get here?"_  
He wants to ask him, " _Where's your bike?"_  
He wants to ask him, _"Did you undress me?"_  
He wants to ask him, _"Why do I remember you stroking my neck?"_

What comes out of his mouth is, "Ah."

Keith looks at him, then follows his gaze down to the sweatpants and back up again. He gets up and crosses the room to stand in front of Shiro. "We took an Uber back from the hospital yesterday. You got some blood on your clothes, and you asked me to help you change them when we got back."

"I... don't remember any of that," Shiro admits, tugging on his shirt self-consciously.

"You were pretty out of it." Keith shrugs, then reaches out to touch his good shoulder lightly. "I hope you don't mind me crashing on your couch. I wanted to make sure you were okay, and it got kinda late..."

"No," Shiro says, a little too quickly, "Course I don't mind. Thanks for being here for me. I... It means a lot."

The corners of Keith's mouth turn up. "Any time. I guess I'll get going then..." He turns toward the door.

Entirely beyond his control, Shiro's left hand shoots out and grabs Keith's arm. "Wait."

Keith looks down at the hand, then at Shiro, over his shoulder.

Shiro swallows. "Keith..."

They stare at each other for a long second, and now that Shiro has Keith's attention, has those brilliant violet eyes trained on him, he isn't entirely sure what he wants to say anymore. "I..."

Keith turns, and steps into his space, and kisses him.

Like everything else with Keith, it's simple, straightforward, and perfect. His lips are soft against Shiro's, his body warm where he presses against his chest, and even his morning breath tastes sweet to Shiro. He finds himself thinking he could get used to this. Keith's kisses are more addictive than caffeine, his closeness better than any sugar rush.

They pull apart after a long second. Sunlight dances over Keith's face and hair, illuminating the bright smile that stretches over his cheeks.

"So," he says, poking Shiro's chest lightly, "You going to make us some coffee or what?"

**Author's Note:**

> This was a collaboration with the wildly talented [kaeri_arts](https://twitter.com/kaeri_arts) on twitter - definitely check out her [lovely, lovely fanart](https://twitter.com/kaeri_arts/status/1205340516579184641?s=20) accompanying this fic.


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